Artistic exploration can challenge our expectations by placing the familiar in a completely new context. The word “mitosis” for example, immediately brings to mind a laboratory setting with scientists draped in white coats, endless rows of sterile tubes; a search for the cure for cancer. In indie singer-songwriter Andrew Bird’s “Imitosis,” however, the scientific term is used by the song’s narrator in an attempt to make sense of the chaotic world around him. “What was mistaken for closeness,” Bird croons, “was just a case of mitosis.”

Mitosis is a complex biological process wherein a cell makes an identical replica of itself through a series of sequential phases: Prophase, Metaphase, Anaphase, and Telophase. A cell begins at Prophase by making an exact copy of it’s entire DNA sequence (in humans that length is equal to 3 billion bases!). The string of DNA is then wound onto more portable spool-like structures, called chromosomes, to prevent any tangles, and to ensure no gene is accidentally left behind. Next, in Metaphase, the chromosomes are lined up in a row across the middle of the cell, then are divvied up, with half going to the right end of the cell, and the other half to the left, completing Anaphase. Lastly, the cell undergoes Telophase, splitting down the center to form two separate genetically identical “daughters”.

The process of mitosis was first discovered by Walther Flemming in 1880. A scientist with a knack for drawing, Flemming created detailed illustrations of the sequential pattern he repeatedly observed under the microscope. Structures seemed to mysteriously disappear and then reappear, ending with the dramatic finale of a cell splitting in half. Putting his observations into words Flemming waxed poetic, writing of “skeins,” “asters,” and “wreaths” in an effort to make sense of the apparent chaos of the process.

Flemming’s findings revolutionized the field of cellular biology. Transient details of mitosis present in Flemming's drawings were difficult to preserve in live specimens. This need to see better detail drove an innovation of stains and dyes, greatly improving cellular microscopy techniques. A high percentage of mitotic phases were observed in wounds and scars, linking the process to repair and regeneration of damaged tissues. A break-down of the proper check-points in mitosis was found to lead to uncontrolled cell growth, a hallmark of cancer. The process of mitotic cell division is now a mainstay of introductory biology courses, the kind of thing whose sequential stages students write out on flashcards: Prophase, Metaphase, Telophase. However, this intricate process—perfected over millennia of evolution—may yet have additional mysteries to unveil. With recent advances innew and powerful visualization technology, a second look at this age-old process may yet lead to new insights.

In between whistles and toe-tapping-fiddle-plucking, Andrew Bird’s song presents the idea of mitosis in a completely different view. At first, my inner science geek simply chuckled at his witty line. But, with a second and then a third playback, I began to think that, by specifically using the term “mitosis,” Bird had captured something unique. With this line, Bird is questioning the dichotomy between observation and reality. In other words, the appearance of closeness is not the same thing as actual closeness. The same is true in the case of mitosis. When the process is complete, two new cells stand side-by-side, seeming close, but in reality, they have been violently torn apart just seconds before.

In our culture of online communications, the contrast of appearances and reality is particularly relevant. With no firm anchor to actual occurrence, appearances and reality often part ways. The interpretation may take on a life of its own, making reality obsolete. A photo of an infamous dress went viral across social media platforms in February, sparking heated debates and speculation. Gold and white!! No, blue and black!! Individual perceptions completely eclipsed the reality of a poorly lit photo and a scientific basis for differences in color perception between individuals.

In using the term mitosis, Bird also hints at the relationship between replaceability and worth. Many human cells are continually replaced via mitosis with exact clones of themselves. Their existence is transient and replaceable. “Scatter like a billion spores, And let the wind just carry them away” Bird sings. But does this observation on the microscopic scale hold true for playgrounds as well? Is something valuable if it can be easily replaced with an identical copy? Does rarity or uniqueness determine worth? Are human relationships replaceable? Or is each individual—each connection—unique?

Finally, Bird’s line can also be read to suggest that human emotions can be as predictable as biological processes—at least for those who memorized their high-school flashcards. But one detects a hint of pessimism in Bird’s tone: knowledge of the inevitable doesn’t make it avoidable or even understandable. When the hero of his song tries to extrapolate what he has observed under the microscope, to the interactions of children at the playground, he finds himself at a loss. “How can kids be so mean, our famous doctor tried to glean”. His reasoning fails to translate. Perhaps despite the best scientific attempts to prove otherwise, one, like Bird’s Professor Pynchon, comes to the conclusion that for all the appearance of closeness in human interactions, “Doctor, can you quantify, Cause he just wants to know the reason, the reason why”.